From 69Stories: One Pervert’s Tale: It was/is an autobiographical telling of bits of my life. None of it is slanderous, libelous, OR untrue These are the facts as I remember them and are retold with joy, and with fond recollection.

Mostly ;-)

FALLING

Falling is something we usually associate with awkwardness, a loss of coordination. Scraped knees, a twisted wrist.

How interesting, then, that we refer to the emotional process of discovering intense feelings of affection and adoration to be “falling in love” it implies awkwardness, a loss of control, and imminent danger. I try to avoid it. Who needs it! Complicated mass of conflicting emotional hairballs. Nine times out of ten you can see it coming and take steps to avoid it.

But sometimes, the fall comes from no where. Smooth sailing, clear path you’ve gone down a thousand times before and the level floor reaches up and grabs you. There’s no defense against that. No amount of denial, defensiveness or dissembling is going to take the wallop out of that fall.

After a series of stumbles and near misses, I’d had enough. I forswore my days of sexual excess, and was firmly committed to keeping myself out of trouble.

HE was trouble from the first moment. The first feature of his that I became acquainted with was his ass.

Well, he was playing pool with a group of men at Barney’s Beanery in Hollywood. I was with two girlfriends, Lori and Anne, and we were seated in a booth next to the pool table area. It was cramped. The players had to practically enter the booths to take long table shots. I wasn’t entirely peeved when a fantastic specimen of male posteriorhood was presented to my gaze. Absolutely the finest ass I have ever seen on a white guy. I tapped it with my finger.

Oo! Nice!

Its owner turned, startled, then smiled at me.

“Excuse me, but we’re trying to eat over here, do you mind not putting your butt on our table?”

Eventually I worked up the nerve to invite him over to our table. His friends were hollering and applauding as he sat in our booth. Within five minutes I’d learned that He was a musician, was in LA on tour for a week or so, then he was flying up to San Francisco for another week and a half. He also had a girlfriend back home. And he played guitar and sang. I wondered why he felt compelled to tell me he had a girlfriend. I mean, he was only in LA for a week. And we had just met.

Whatever!

I asked him where he was going to be performing. He wasn’t sure, so he asked one of the Irish dudes at the other table. The guy pulls out a huge, and I mean fat freaking binder and flips through it…they were at the Shrine Auditorium that Tuesday.

I cracked the fuck up.

“I have never heard of you. The Shrine Auditorium is where they hold, like, the Academy awards and shit.”

He explained it was not his gig, he was playing backup for another guy. He asked me if I’d heard of Van Morrison.

“Um, yeah I have heard of him. So, you are touring with Van Morrison, right?” I asked him if he could get tickets for my friends and me. He said he didn’t think that would be a problem. Frankly, I had my doubts about the whole story. Furthermore, I will confess to not be being a huge Van Morrison fan. But that didn’t really matter. This wasn’t about anyone but Him and me.

The evening flew and I found I couldn’t stand to be away from Him. He’d look at me with this sly sort of grin and I’d giggle. He’d touch my arm or knee and I’d sweat. I was out of control. Helpless. He knew it. He felt it and there was nothing to be done to stop it.

He invited me back to his hotel, where he and his mates were going to continue partying. I’d have followed him anywhere, but my car was in fucking Pasadena and my girlfriends were less than supportive of my desire to trot off with this stranger. We exchanged numbers and promises to get together the following afternoon…

I reached to shake his hand and he laughed, grabbing my wrist and pulling me towards him his hands in my hair on either side of my face looking into my eyes and leaning down to kiss me what…now I cant breathe…my entire body…compressed…tight…hot…alive…numb and frozen…

He was a really good kisser.

I didn’t sleep. As soon as was feasible in the morning, I called my friends. I rescheduled my therapy appointment. In a panic, I told her what had happened and that I had to …I don’t know. Something was happening.

She was surprisingly calm.

“I’ll be here when you are done, do what you need to go. Call me.”

Huh.

I talked to my Boss…just in case…I needed a few days off.

I wondered what the fuck was happening. I felt my life split in front of me. I could back out and take the path I was on, to whatever that would be. Or.

Or I could get on board this other ride that plummeted over an edge outside of my vision. I’d never in my life had a clearer moment of choice.

But there wasn’t ever a question.

Not really.
I picked Him up in front of His Hotel, and we cruised down Melrose Avenue to my favorite bar, the SnakePit. This was, of course, for show. What I really wanted was to turn around and go back to his hotel room immediately, but I had only just committed to curbing my promiscuity! I thought about it.

“Look, I’ll feel really slutty if we go right back to your hotel room after our first date. Um…how about this. We can go to two more bars, then it will be like our third date, and then we can fuck. How’s that?”

He was amenable, and so off we went. We drove over to The Cat and Fiddle. Listened to some Screamin’ Jay Hawkins on the juke.

A couple rounds later, it was back in to my old ass Honda Accord, Set. I chauffeured Him to The Burgundy room

It wasn’t long there. We were going to be 86ed if we kept up our lascivious behaviour at the bar. He didn’t seem to care that people stared. He gazed at me with unnerving clarity and delight. His breath smoky, his smile bright his hands on my ass my hips my waist under my breast my neck…he would lean in and whisper and my entire nervous system would overload and I would be on the brink of orgasm, breath shallow and huffing past parted lips eyes wide and unblinking as I stared back at him trying to catch, in his dark green eyes, a trace of what it was he saw in me.

“God you are so fucking gorgeous….you have no idea what I’m going to do to you, love…”

He was right. I didn’t. I’m not sure he really knew, either. Not really.

We left Burgundy room and I floored it back to the Sunset Marquis. We ran through the lobby and up to a pair of double French doors which suddenly swung open towards us and we almost collided with a stout short man, a bottle of brandy in one fist and the hand of a girl in the other. My Date smiled and told me he’d like to introduce me to his boss. My eyes widened slightly.

“Oh! Hi, Mr. Morrison. Van, Van it is then!”

OK, jaded or not, this is Pretty Fucking Cool.

It was less fucking cool when we got back up to My Date’s huge suite, and Van decided to stick around for a while. We drank brandy while He and Van did horrific things to the lyrics of Brown Eyed Girl. I chatted with the girl, who turned out to be the younger sister to the lead singer of the Pogues. She was amused I dug them. Unlike her brother, she had a beautiful smile.

The minutes stretched hours. I pondered the irony. I mean, here I was in the presence of a musical legend! Lots of people would give their right arm to be here!! And all I could do was wish he’d leave so that I could screw his guitarist. Feh.

And I had to pee.

By the time I left the luxuriously appointed bathroom, I had decided to just make the best of things and relax a bit…enjoy the ride!

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